The Remedy
by Unproper Grammar
Summary: The past happened and it can only happen the way it happened.  This is debatable.
1. Part B

His mouth felt dry, heavy; like it was stuffed with cotton and his tongue had gone numb. There was a dull ache in his head, throbbing at his temples and a sharp pain across the bridge of his nose. Reaching up, he ran his fingers beneath his nostrils and drew them back, wincing at the sight of blood. What had happened last night?

Rolling over, he let out a groan as a flash of pain ran through his body. God, seriously, he had had way too much to drink with his buddies the night before. That was the absolute last time he could be convinced to take a shot every time a word with a vowel was spoken. Stretching his aching muscles, he moved slowly, turning over in the small, crammed bed. That was one of the biggest problems about staying at his parents' house: his bed was about two sizes too small for him now and definitely left no room for female occupants. He had always tried to argue this as time went on, but his parents seemed in no hurry to remove the bedroom of it's teenage innocence by allowing there to be enough space for it to be christened into adulthood.

Which was ridiculous, because, yes, while it was a tight squeeze, but he and a certain female occupant had managed many times. His parents? They would never know.

Damn, his eyes felt heavy too, as if his eyelids were made out of concrete. Someone must have slipped something in one of his many drinks. Alcohol couldn't be this crippling on it's own, could it?

He yawned, feeling an ache in his jaw, possibly even his teeth, settling on his side. His room, he decided, would always be a shrine to his former teenage self, and for some reason it seemed even more prominent than ever. He furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes. Had his mom seriously put those old high school basketball photos up on his bulletin board again? Had she seriously taken down every single photo he had tacked up their throughout college, the ones that depicted his life with _her_, just cause she thought it would be an easier healing period by smothering him with the past? While he had greatly enjoyed playing varsity basketball throughout his high school career, it wasn't something he particularly missed, nor did he feel the need to be reminded of it. His mother didn't need to coddle him, and he definitely would have a word with her about it.

Possibly. Maybe. Later, though. Moving seemed too difficult.

Rolling onto his back, (with great difficulty, might he add) he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt like shit, and the worst part was he couldn't even remember if last night had been fun. If he had had a good enough time to completely forget about _her_ and everything that had happened and how much things hurt and how everything sucked. The whole point of going out and getting wasted was to try to forget, and he couldn't if remember if that had happened.

Now, here he was, hungover in his teenage bedroom with no recollection of the night before.

At least he managed to forget something.

Sitting up on his bed, he let out a groan, swiping his hand under his nose and over his upper lip, wiping away the drying blood. Why was he bleeding, anyway? That was certainly a different side affect to drinking your weight in tequila. Closing his eyes, he leaned down and rested his head in his hands. How had everything gone so wrong? How did he end up here, at his parents house, at the age of twenty-four? Wasn't he supposed to be successful by now? Wasn't he supposed to be married, or engaged, or at least still in a serious relationship? Were these no the prime years of his life? It felt like he was wasting them away; like everything wasn't going as planned.

He should at least get himself up and out of bed, he decided. Should at least shower, have some coffee, and throw on some clothes. Then he could vege out for a while; he doubted his mother would mind (all that much). That way he'd feel like he accomplished something, even if it was just moving for a few minutes. Heaving himself off the bed, he paddled across his room and into the en suite bathroom.

Flickering on the lights in the bathroom, Troy headed straight for the shower, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he yanked his shirt over his head. He certainly didn't want to see what state he was in; the last time he had gotten his drunk he had a lipstick print on his neck, a phone number written in forehead on his neck, and his hair was the dirtiest it had ever looked. He didn't know why, but the circles under his eyes were so dark he looked like he was either a drug dealer, or had gotten in a fist fight. He would rather not deal with that this morning.

Turning on the faucet, he turned on the radio as the steam filled the room. The Fray's '_How to Save a Life_' picked up mid-chorus as he stepped into the shower, closing the curtain behind him and letting the warm stream hit his face. God, he hadn't heard this song in ages.

Mentally, he went through his 'plans' for the rest of the day. After this he was most certainly getting that coffee he considered earlier, and then he wasn't moving for the rest of the day. Maybe he'd think about what to do about living arrangements tomorrow. On Tuesday, he'd think about what he'd do about getting his belongings from their shared apartment. He considered, briefly, groveling. Perhaps she'd give him one more chance to explain things; perhaps there was still a chance to work things out.

A slim one, but at a chance nevertheless.

"_Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I know how to save a life._"

The song finished as he washed his hair (how did he get so much? he definitely needed a haircut), and he vaguely registered the radio jockey came over the air over the sounds of the water. "I'm Fearless Fred and that was How to Save the Life by The Fray, which is number two on today's countdown. It's just after three on on Friday, September 22, 2006, and I'm hoping you didn't just wake up. Get a job," the DJ quipped.

Rinsing the suds out of his hair, he rolled his eyes in response. Who was he to tell him what to...wait. What?

With a start, he turned off the water and practically fell out of the shower in his haste to get to his room. He threw a towel around his waist, and this time, succeeded in falling on the floor as he slipped on the hardwood. Picking himself up, he scurried over to his desk, throwing himself onto the desk-chair and moving the mouse by his computer; pulling it out of sleep mod. He glanced at the date.

September 22nd, 2006.

His heart was pounding. How was this even possible? He jumped up and ran over to his night-table, grabbing his cell phone, only it was different than he remembered. It was not the sleek iPhone he had the night before, but rather a small, red Motorola Razr. He frowned, and flipped it open, reading the date on the top of the screen.

It was the same; September 22nd, 2006.

There was a knock at his door a moment later, and it opened slowly. His mother stood there, a hand on her hip and concern written on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked, her mouth in a straight line. "I heard a bang and now there's all of this running around the room. Is everything okay?"

"Mom!" he said suddenly, running towards her, "Quick, what's the date!"

Perplexed, his mother raised an eyebrow. "It's Saturday." She frowned. "Is this like that time in high school when you thought it was Saturday when really it was Monday and you missed your final exam for AP biology? Or did you go out last night and can't even remember your name."

Leave it to his mother to give an insufficient answer. "Something like that," he mumbled, waving his hands rather frantically. "What's the full date mom?

"It's the twenty-second."

"No!" he closed his eyes, agitated, "what's the year?"

His mother let out a heavy sigh. "It's 2006. Now please, come downstairs and eat something. Your father is livid."

His stomach dropped to his feet at her words. His father? 2006? How was this even possible? As his mother walked out of his room, closing the door behind her, he found himself staring at the stop she had just occupied, a small smiling on his face slowly growing into a large one.

It had worked.

* * *

"Hi, there! My name's Candice and I'll be your server today," a sweet, chipper voice said. He found himself glancing up from the menu he was focused on, and his gaze fell upon a young woman. She was extremely petite in every sense of the word, with long, glossy light brown hair, wide brown eyes, and a bright smile. Her dimples and braces made her seem younger and very charming, and he felt himself instantly endeared to her, the familiarity she brought with her more than slightly comforting.

She flipped open her small notebook, pencil poised and ready to go. "Would you like to hear today's specials? We have an excellent soup of the day and I highly recommend the pastrami sandwich on rye," she said, her voice all pep and no vinegar, "can I get you a coffee to start?"

Nodding, he smiled back at her. "Sure, coffee would be great. Black, two sugars on the side, please," he said, keeping his voice even and calm. He didn't want to scare her off; his position was precarious and strange, and he didn't want the first person he came in contact with to figure it out instantly. "As for the menu, I'm thinking I'll need a little bit more time."

Candice nodded, scribbling down his request on her notepad (though he imagined—or rather knew—that she could have remembered it without the reminder) before flashing him another smile. "Alright! I'll be right back with your coffee, sir."

With that, she flounced away, her hair swinging behind her. Grinning to himself, he took a moment to survey the diner, the same one he had frequented so many times in the past. Red vinyl booths and seats, a long bar with stools lined up alongside it, doughnuts and pie trapped behind glass containers on the counter. The smell of coffee was rich in the air along with the scent of salt and oil. The floors were still black and white checked, the lighting still industrial, and the music still ten years too old. At the current moment, Donna Lewis was singing about loving someone always and forever. He sighed and leaned back in the small booth he occupied, right by the window and three tables away from the door.

Everything was exactly as it was supposed to be. Everything was exactly as he remembered.

Running a hand through his messy, long hair (seriously, how did it gets so long?), he suddenly felt awkward, just as he had the first time he sat down at this very table all of those years ago. Did people think he'd come here alone? Well, he had. But did they think that made him some sort of weird loner because of it? If he was lucky, they just thought he was waiting for someone...though as more time went by and no one showed up, they'd eventually realize this wasn't the case. It didn't matter, though, people ate alone all of the time. Didn't they?

Reaching across the table, on impulse he grabbed the salt and pepper shakers. Digging in his wallet for some change, he chuckled to himself. The difference a few years makes; before, he had been entirely confident stepping into the diner, completely sure of himself and totally unaware that anyone would even be looking at him. Now he was more than just aware of it. It consumed him.

Candice arrived then with his coffee and set it down. "Are you meeting someone?" she asked, confirming his fears. He knew partially it was because she was curious as to whether or not he'd need more time with the menu, but also because people his age (who looked like he did) didn't usually dine alone. He'd been told enough times. "Should we wait for them?"

He opened his mouth to reply that he wasn't, and that he'd go ahead and have the pastrami sandwich she'd suggested when he stopped. There was a reason he had come to this particular diner, there was a reason he was here. To change things.

"Yeah, I am," he said, smiling.

It was true. This time, he was waiting for someone. Last time he had, too. He just didn't know it.

He glanced over at the Cat clock on the wall. If he remembered correctly (which he really hoped he did), then she should be arriving any minute. He looked back over at Candice. "Would you mind waiting another five or so minutes?"

"Sure thing!" Candice said with a nod, "Take all of the time you need! I'll be over when your guest arrives."

As she departed, he set up the salt and pepper shakers, setting them a few inches apart from each other before flicking the penny he had pulled from his pocket in between them with his thumb and forefinger. Goal! he shouted in his head. He and his dad had played this game so many times in his youth. He felt a warm tingle run through him at the realization that maybe they could play again. That with all of this, he could change so many things, including what happened to his father.

Everything would be different, but in a positive way. The bad would be eliminated and what would be left would only be good.

The bell on the door jingled, signaling that someone had entered, but by now he was too immersed in his thoughts of what could happen, of what would happen; to take note of the lithe, dark haired woman who had just entered. She even managed to walk past him without him noticing (just like last time...he had probably been too involved in this very game then, too) and it wasn't until she was seated in the booth behind him and she spoke that he realized she was there.

Candice had already been summoned and was standing next to the woman's table, smiling brightly and rattling off the day's specials (again, she stressed the pastrami), before inquiring what she could get for her. The woman cleared her throat and 'hmm-ed' to herself, before answering.

"I think I'll start with an iced tea," she said, her voice soft, high, and airy, "I'd like a little more time if you wouldn't mind."

His heart stopped at the sound of her voice. It was like time stopped. (And given the circumstances, it probably did.) Slowly, he turned around, and he felt the breath get knocked out of him at the sight before him.

She was there. She was every bit as perfect as he remembered, every bit as perfect as she was the last time he saw her. Her eyes were cast down on the menu in front of her, her black eye lashes fluttering against her cheek. The unseasonal cold from outside had painted them a soft pink, and her lips seemed like they were slightly chapped, though he knew that they would still be ridiculously soft all the same. Her black pea coat sat in a pile on the seat beside her, a stack of books resting on the table next to her elbow. She was wearing an olive green cardigan and a soft cream tank top underneath, her wrist weighed down with gold bangles; a scarf with burnt orange flowers wrapped around her neck. Her hair was long—longer than he remembered, certainly—and pulled up in a ponytail, showing off the length of her neck and the curves of her jaw. Candice arrived with the woman's drink a moment later and she looked up to thank her, smiling.

He had to look away momentarily at the sight of her eyes, so expressive, so bright and felt his heart clench at the memory of the way they had looked the last time he had seen them. Shaking the feeling off, he cleared his throat loudly, hoping she hear and look over at him. It was now or never, and who knew how long he really had here anyway? Best to seize the moment while he had it.

Only she didn't notice, her eyes still tracing over the menu. He frowned and cleared his throat again, this time louder, but she still did not notice. By the third time, he was fairly sure that a flicker of annoyance had jumped across her features, but he could not be sure. She didn't get annoyed easily for one, and it was such a brief moment that he might have imagined it. Regardless, by the fourth time—sounding like he was hacking up a lung at this point—she looked up and her eyes met with his. Instantly, a shock ran through him and he noticed with much delight that her eyes grew ever so slightly wider. He smiled easily, though his heart was pounding rapidly and the pace only increased when he saw her smile shyly back.

"Hi," he said with a smile, "how's it going?"

She paused, glancing around awkwardly before responding. "Fine," she said softly, her voice like honey. He was thrilled at the sound of it. "Thank you."

He grinned as she immediately looked back down at her menu. Some things never change. "Nice day out, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing to the window beside him, not entirely sure if it was in fact a nice day. He had been in a daze on the way over.

She glanced out the window and furrowed her brow. "It's raining."

Flushing slightly, he grinned sheepishly. "I know," he chuckled, "it was a joke." Feeling like he had played it off well enough, especially when she smiled back at him, a little more confidently this time, he continued, "some people like it when it rains, though."

"True," she agreed, "though I am not one of them."

"Oh?" he knew she wasn't. "Me neither. Too dark and that makes me depressed."

Her eyes lit up. "Yes! Me too! That's it, exactly!"

"Well," he said with a grin, "glad to see someone else agrees. You come here often?" It was a line and he meant it as one, but he hoped she didn't notice. He had used it last time and she had, but maybe it would be different.

It wasn't. She raised an eyebrow. "Yes," she said slowly, her amusement apparent. God this was mortifying. He had been so much more smooth the first time around. "It's my favourite place to eat." She paused, as if contemplating whether or not to continue the conversation. "What about you?"

He nodded, pleased that she had gone on. "No, this is my first time here. What do you recommend?"

She brought a finger to her chin in thought, a movement he was very used to. "The pastrami sandwich is fantastic," she said, and he held back a laugh, "but I also really like the French onion soup. But I don't know if either of those are your tastes, so I can't really recommend much based on my lack of knowledge."

"Both sound great," he answered honestly. "I'm Troy, by the way, Troy Bolton. I would shake your hand, but you're much too far away." He gestured to the distance between them and she rolled her eyes, smiling. She stood up from her booth, and walked over to his, taking the seat adjacent to his.

"I'm Gabriella," she extended her hand, "Gabriella Montez. It's very nice to meet you, Troy."

Slipping his hand into hers and shaking it gently, but firmly, he smiled to himself. This could really be the beginning of something.

Maybe then the end wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

Thank you to Julina for her wonderful beta-reading and cheerleading. Where are my Sour Patch Kids?


	2. The Rules

**2B.** I've now typed fifteen hundred words about time travel, which means I've reached the point where everything becomes a problem for everybody. This is the point where we need to address the philosophical dilemmas embedded in any casual discussions about time travel, real or imagined. And there are a lot of them. And I don't understand about 65 percent of them. And the 36 percent I do understand are pretty elementary to everyone, including the substantial chunk of consumers who are very high and watching Anna Farris movies while they read this. But here we go! I will start with the most unavoidable eight.

1. If you change any detail about the past, you might accidentally destroy everything in present-day existence.

2. If you went back in time to accomplish a specific goal (and you succeeded at this goal), there would be no reason for you to have traveled back in time in the first place.

3. A loop in time eliminates the origin of things that already exist.

4. You'd possibly kill everybody by sneezing.

5. You already exist in the recent past.

6. Before you attempted to travel back in time, you'd already know if it worked.

7. Unless all of the time is happening simultaneously within multiple realities, memories and artifacts would mysteriously change.

8. **The past happened and it can only happen the way it happened. **(This is debatable.)

- Chuck Klosterman, '_Eating the Dinosaur_'


	3. Our Endless Numbered Days

What's the verb to cut it off? To take a knife and hack away at it?

You keep saying, "Well, that's the last time."

You pretend to stand aside no matter what we did.

I'm not playing.

All in all, that's just enough to keep us sliding back to where we were.

I'm not waiting.

That's the last time you who will friends to tell you that you walked away with it,

When you barely scraped through.

"I'm tired of fighting," she said, your words just rattle my head.

All joy escapes in the dark, and I can't make this make sense.

Your words are lost to me now. I cannot take it anymore.

I'm stuck here kidding myself. You're out there caring somewhere.

-The Verb, The Swell Season

* * *

**The Remedy**

Part A: Our Endless Numbered Days

* * *

_Present Day, __**February 2010**_

"So then what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what happened after?"

"After she threw the dinner I made her in the sink or after she started crying?"

"Didn't she start crying after she threw it in the sink? I thought that was before."

"No, she threw it in the sink first, and then she started crying cause she felt bad."

"Oh. So what happened_ next_, then?"

"I said sorry. She said sorry. We made up."

"Damn," twenty-four year old Troy Bolton said, leaning back in his chair and grinning at his best friend. "You work quick."

Chad Danforth shrugged his shoulders, leaning back in his own seat and giving a small laugh. "What can I say? It's a gift."

Picking up his beer, Troy shook his head. "I wouldn't say it's that you have a gift, Chad," he said pointedly. "I would say you have a dysfunctional relationship."

"As would I," Chad agreed, taking a large gulp of his own beer. "But I am perfectly alright with that. Taylor's fucking crazy—there's absolutely no way anyone could be in a functional relationship with her, and if they did, they would have to be a robot or perhaps even a clone of herself. And I mean that. She would agree."

"I'm not sure she would," Troy laughed. Chad had been his best friend since childhood, and sometimes it felt like he had been with Taylor even longer. In reality, they had been together since they were fourteen and freshmen in high school, but at twenty-four, high school also felt like it was forever ago. "Not many women would want to hear that their boyfriend thinks their relationship is dysfunctional. Not many _people_ would want to hear that."

Chad set his bottle down and folded his arms, staring at Troy with a rather serious look on his face. "Are you aware that over forty percent of marriages end in divorce? Forty percent, Troy. That's almost fifty percent. That's almost half."

"Wow."

"I know, isn't it crazy?"

"No, I just," Troy let out a low whistle, "you know basic math."

Chad rolled his eyes. "Okay, Troy, be a joker. Take nothing seriously. You do that."

"I resent that."

"Whatever," Chad said, rolling his eyes, "my point is everyone has a dysfunctional relationship. There's just some that can handle it and some that can't. Some that think it's worth the risk, and some that don't."

"And obviously you think it's worth the risk," Troy commented. "Since you're getting married to her and all."

"It is," Chad said, nodding, "plus I will officially be the most responsible person you know. I will be a married man."

It was Troy's turn to roll his eyes. Chad and Taylor were set to marry after an extremely lengthy engagement, and as best man of the operation, Troy had been stuck with his fair share of wedding plans. As the date drew nearer, things seemed to be more stressful for all parties involved, including his girlfriend Gabriella Montez, who just so happened to be the maid of honor.

As happy as he and Gabriella were to share in Chad and Taylor's big day, they also couldn't wait until it was over. Thinking of speeches and planning bachelor and bachelorette parties was only fun for so long. Which wasn't very long at all.

"And as I've said, good for you, man," Troy said, lifting his beer, "good for you."

"You'll understand one day," Chad said seriously, "when you propose to Gabriella and all."

"I—" Troy flushed, "I don't want to talk about that."

Chad let out an aggravated sigh. "Troy, you guys have been together for four years. Time is ticking."

"We're only twenty-four!"

"And next year you'll be twenty-five! Seriously, Troy, what are you waiting for? You love her, you live together, and you're not a getting the milk for free kind of guy, so what's the hold up?" Chad stared at him seriously, "Things are okay with you guys, right?"

"Well, I—"

"Hi there!' a perky voice said, and the two looked up to see a buxom blonde waitress standing there. "What can I get for you?"

Their conversation interrupted, the two men placed their orders. All the while, the blonde regarded Troy carefully, batting her eyelashes and smiling a little too widely. Troy shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. Their orders arrived, and they dined; the waitress (her name was Stacey, as she mentioned several times) came back to check to 'see if they needed anything' on more than one occasion. Needless to say, her attention was enough to completely negate any shock Troy would have had when he saw her phone number scribbled down on the back of his check. Chad thought this was hilarious.

Laughing uproariously as they left, Chad wiped fake tears from his eyes. "Oh, man!" he said, clutching his side, "you just can't go anywhere without getting hit on, can you? Without someone offering their goods and services! I'm telling you, this is priceless!"

Troy scoffed and ripped up his check, tossing it in a garbage bin. "Shut the fuck up, it's not even funny. Annoying, is what it is. I have a girlfriend, and even if I didn't, I don't feel like dating some random ass chick who is aggressive enough to leave me her phone number on the back of a receipt."

Chad shook his head. "See dude, that's why you gotta put a ring on it. It won't completely ward off the attack of the zombie slut, but it most definitely will make your status known."

There Chad went again, talking about marriage. He was a living contradiction today; openly promoting marriage by participating in it, but at the same time knocking it down with his speech about dysfunctional relationships and marriages ending all over the place.

Which brought Troy to his next question.

"Hey, Chad?" Troy asked, swinging his keys around his index finger as the pair walked to his car. "Why are you marrying Taylor if forty percent of marriages end in divorce?"

Chad stopped walking then, his hand shoved in his pockets as he gave Troy an odd look, his brows furrowed and his mouth in a straight line. "Why am I marrying her when a census from four years ago says we're doomed?"

Troy nodded. Chad had never seemed to be the marrying type to begin with, and at times it was awfully difficult to comprehend that he was, in fact, the first of their group to make his way down the aisle.

Letting out a small chuckle, he responded slowly. "Why wouldn't I?"

For a moment, Troy was completely and entirely confused. Chad just kept contradicting himself. "Well, you said it yourself. You're doomed."

"Says that old census," Chad quipped, "just because a relationship is dysfunctional, Troy, doesn't mean it can't work. No relationship is perfect, but sixty percent of people still manage to keep it together. There's always the chance that you'll make it through and you have to believe that."

"Plus," he said thoughtfully, "there's something to be said about asking someone to be yours forever and having them agree. There's something great in knowing they love you enough."

The two men were silent, though people bustled around them; coming and going into the restaurant and the stores that made up the strip mall. The parking lot was filling up and emptying all at once, but they stood still, the words that Chad had just spoken falling over them.

He let out a loud laugh and it sounded awkward, out of place. "Oh damn, that was girlie as fuck," he said, grinning, "Come on, man, let's go home. You okay to drive?" He began to walk back to Troy's car, his strides loping and long. "Cause I think I drank more than you, so I don't know if I can if you can't...you know."

"I'm good, man," Troy said, following him over to his black car. He unlocked the doors and he slid in the driver's seat as Chad clambered into the passenger's side. The radio switched on and The Kings of Leon began playing. Chad started to bang out an impressive drum solo on the dashboard as Troy pulled out of the parking lot, knowing that he very well wanted to ask someone to be his forever, but not quite sure if she'd agree.

"Hey, Troy?" Chad asked a few minutes later. "Everything's okay with you and Gabi, right?"

Troy contemplated telling him the truth: that he wasn't sure, but instead he just nodded. "Yeah man, everything's fine."

As he dropped Chad off at his apartment, he wondered to himself if he'd ever get to say that he could at least try to be a part of that sixty-percent of married couples who saw it through to death to us part. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why he suddenly cared so much, but he continued to shove it out of the way.

The realization that even a year ago he would have been able to say with absolute certainty that he had someone to marry anytime he wanted stung. Especially since now they were grasping at the threads that were holding them together.

He didn't like to think about it often.

* * *

What he did like to think about was Gabriella, and it was on that afternoon, after his odd, somewhat depressing conversation with Chad, that he decided he needed to do something nice for her. Something to show that he didn't take her for granted and that he really was thinking about her every spare moment of the day that he had.

Gabriella had been his girlfriend for the last four years, and though he certainly could not remember life without her, he wasn't entirely sure at times if he could imagine spending the rest of his life with her. That's not to say he had no desire to—since he more than certainly did—rather just that he wasn't sure if it would all work out. He hoped it would, but that didn't mean he didn't have his doubts. His conversation with Chad had only heightened these fears, these worries. Shouldn't he be feeling as confident in his own relationship? Shouldn't he be wanting to defy the odds?

There were a lot of things Troy didn't know: he didn't know where he was going to be working by the end of the year, he didn't know what he was having for dinner, and he didn't know if Gabriella was going to be there when he was eighty. But what he did know was that he loved her. He loved her more than anything.

Troy was completely entirely head over heels, crazy in love with Gabriella. The two had met at a small diner when they were twenty years old and if he believed in love at first sight, he would most definitely say that that was what he had experienced upon seeing her. He knew in that very moment that he wanted to know her, that he wanted to be with her. From the moment she walked in and took a seat at the booth beside his, he knew that he was going to love her.

Which made him question why he didn't believe in love at first sight, but he supposed that was because he thought it was entirely too girly of a notion to begin with.

He asked her out on a date that first day they met, no matter how forward it made him seem, and two weeks in, she was his girlfriend. A year later they moved in together and the rest was history.

Rocky history, but history.

Either way, he decided to surprise Gabriella by picking her up from work. She was an fourth grade teacher at the local elementary school and since he had taken the car that day, she was going to take the bus home after completing her work day. However, upon the realization that perhaps his relationship was in very strong, very immediate danger—coupled with the fact that he really did think about Gabriella at all spare moments of the day—instead of driving directly home, he took a detour and stopped off at her school.

Taking the back entrance through the playground (the one he was specifically not supposed to take, though he'd feign ignorance and say he forgot when she questioned him about it), he tried to keep the pep in his step. It was Wednesday, and the day had been long so far, the week even longer. With all of the responsibilities surrounding Chad and Taylor's wedding, both he and Gabriella had been exhausted, causing the tensions to rise between them even further. Needless to say, it had been far from a good week, so Troy wouldn't help but that maybe, perhaps with this surprise (and possibly romantic? was it romantic?) gesture, Gabriella would cheer up.

It was the end of the day and the majority of children had gone home, but there were still a few stragglers wandering the hall of the small school. Kids who had stayed to work on the campaign for student council president were stationed on a patch of empty floor; bristol board, glitter glue, and construction paper laid out all around them. There were students in the library peer tutoring and others who had stayed behind for talent show rehearsal.

Troy tried to dodge them, to walk through the hall inconspicuously, and for the most part he did. There were a few girls who snickered when he walked by, and said hello flirtatiously. They were older, senior students, making them about thirteen and their actions far from appropriate, and Troy felt immediately uncomfortable. Finally, he arrived at Gabriella's classroom door, and with a jovial knock on the door, walked inside.

"Surprise," he said brightly, "What's up beautiful? Your Prince Charming has arrived!"

She was seated at her desk, her high heels had been kicked off underneath and her feet were in stockings, crossed at the ankle. Her hair had been let down out of it's professional pony tail and the sleeves of her button down top rolled up. She looked up from her spot in surprise and blinked owlishly. Poised in her hand was a red marker and he realized she had been grading papers. She stared at him blankly, her brow furrow slightly.

"Troy!" she said, her voice confused, "What are you doing here?"

"You heard me, " he said casually, "I just thought I could surprise you! Come drive you home since I took the car today and all."

She frowned then and broke her gaze away from him. Leaning back in her chair, she fiddled with the gold chain around her neck, sliding the pendant along it's length. It had been a present from him two years prior for their second anniversary and it was always a comfort to him to see her wearing it. She wore it everyday, and he worried that maybe one day she wouldn't. It was like the necklace was like a symbol, and God forbid she ever stopped wearing it because that would mean something was wrong.

He felt stupid and childish for labeling their relationship that way, but sometimes he felt like it was the only thing making him feel like things weren't entirely falling apart.

"Oh, Troy, that's so sweet," Gabriella said with a sigh, "but I don't know, I was planning on staying a little later? Get some of these tests graded so I can give them back to my kids. They're kind of worried about them, you know?"

"Oh," Troy said, feeling slightly crestfallen. "But then you'd have to walk home."

"I know," she said softly, "but I don't mind really. You know that." Gabriella looked at him sadly, and he wondered what was really bothering her. "I wish you had called earlier. Then I wouldn't have made plans to stay later."

Letting out a weak chuckle, he came to stand in front of her, his hands running up and down her arms. "But then it wouldn't have been a surprise, Gabi," he said, "The whole purpose would have been gone."

Gabriella smiled at him and leaned into his touch. "You know I hate surprises."

"I know," he said, feeling slightly brighter at how she responded to his touch, "I just figured that today might be different."

She shook her head. "Sorry, not so," she plopped back in her desk chair and ran a hand through her desk. "Today was definitely the wrong day to do it."

"Was it that Josh kid again, baby?" Troy asked as he stepped behind her to massage her shoulders. She let out a pleased hum in response before answering.

"Yes! I swear, he just tries to push my buttons, and I come in every single day just trying so hard not to have him get under my skin. I start everyday thinking, okay, today I'm not going to get angry. And then he breaks out a ukulele during lunch and leaves it on my desk just to provoke me."

"He's a brat. I'll have him committed for stressing you out," Troy joked as he leaned over her to press a kiss to her cheek. He felt her smile as she shifted.

"Ah, it's the same old nonsense. Enough about me," she turned around and stood up, lacing her arms around his neck. "How was your day?"

"My day was good," he said, wrapping his own arms around her hips, "I met Chad for lunch. Nothing special."

"Oh!" Gabriella said, "To discuss wedding plans or just to have lunch?"

"A little bit of both."

"I can't believe it's in a matter of a week," Gabriella whispered, "their wedding, I mean. How time flies."

Troy sighed, leaning forward and pressing his face into her hair. "I can't wait till it's over."

Gabriella laughed. "Me either. Hey!" she said, if suddenly remembering, "How did the job hunt go today?" she asked, walking behind her desk and shuffling some papers. Troy looked down, before swallowing and looking back up at her.

"Um, it went alright," he said, trailing off. "How was your day?"

"You already asked that," Gabriella frowned, and Troy knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. "Troy," she said, her voice firm, "did you even do anything today?"

"I met Chad for lunch..."

"I mean did you do anything about finding a job, Troy," she said again. She was getting annoyed, and he was trying to think of excuses as to why he hadn't been scouring the newspapers and Craigslist and anything else he could get his hands on to find employment. Why he had decided to spend the morning sleeping in and his afternoon with Chad.

He was tired, he thought, he was stressed and he was becoming depressed. Wasn't that reason enough? He had been unemployed for six months since his company had laid him off and finding work had been hell. In the beginning, he had been awfully gung-ho, searching for jobs left and right, networking, and going to interviews and meetings.

Yet after dozens of interviews, nearly seven months later, and no prospects, he just wanted a break. Gabriella had been more than ridiculously patient, unconditionally supportive the entire time, but she didn't make much with her teaching salary and money was coming to be more and more tight as the days went on. To say it had taken a toll on their relationship was an understatement.

That was why telling her that he hadn't even made an effort today was going to be digging an even deeper grave. So he went with the only thing he could think of. He lied. "Of course I did, Gabi," he said in what he hope was a sincere manner, "I sent out some resumes this morning."

"Did you really?" she asked pointedly, "cause I called the house this morning around eleven, and you didn't answer and you always answer the phone. So that means you were either asleep or not home. Which was it?"

Taking a deep breath, Troy sighed and looked at his girlfriend. She looked disappointed, she looked tired. She was gorgeous, as usual, but there were dark circles around her otherwise bright brown eyes, and her complexion was pale. He felt a pang run through his chest, realizing that it was his lack of motivation that was contributing to her exhaustion.

He wished he could do something to take it all away. He wished he could snap his fingers and come up with a solution to his career crisis. He wished he could run his thumbs underneath her eyes and erase the bags. He wished he could kiss her and bring back a flush to her cheeks.

Instead all he could offer up was the truth, and he knew that was less than satisfactory.

"Gabi, it's been a rough week..."

"Except it was a rough week last week, Troy," Gabriella said as she began hurriedly picking up her students papers and shoving them into her satchel. "It was a rough week before that, too!" She shoved her lunch bag inside, aggressively, and Troy winced. "It's like every week is a rough week."

Biting his lip, he tried not to snap at her. As much as he felt bad, he also needed her to know that he was exhausted, too- that there were dark circles under his own eyes, that as much as he wished it was, it wasn't as easy as snapping his fingers and pulling a job out of thin air. "Gabriella, I know you're upset, but—"

"Upset?" Gabriella said harshly, banging around her desk as she gathered the rest of her belongings. "Upset? Why would you think I'm _upset_? Because my boyfriend has once again loaded all of the responsibilities of paying rent, of paying for food, of paying for anything on my shoulders? Would I be upset that I'm stuck supporting us again, all because he's too damn lazy to get off his ass and find a job?" She swung her bag up and slammed it on the desk as she lifted her coat off the back of her chair. "Why would that upset me?"

Now he was just as angry as she was. "Okay, Gabriella, that's unfair," he gritted his teeth, "you know just as well as I do that I worked very hard at finding a job in the beginning. It's not fucking easy, okay? It's not easy to find a job right now, the market is ridiculous."

"So what!" Gabriella all but yelled, "get a job at McDonalds in the meantime! Do something, Troy, don't just sit around and let me take care of you!"

"I'm not!" he insisted, "Gabriella, you think I like this? You think I like having you bring the bacon to the table? I hate it every bit as much as you do!"

Gabriella laughed. "Ha, that's hard to believe. You just enjoy being coddled."

"I do not!"

"You do so!" she shouted, "God, Troy, I am so _tired_! I feel like I'm the only one stressing about this and you're just coasting! I swear to god, I'm one step away from a heart attack."

She was crying now, and Troy instantly felt bad. "Gabriella," he said, coming towards her, "God, baby, don't cry."

He moved towards her and she put her arms up. "Don't, Troy," she warned, "Don't try to make this better."

Feeling his anger dissipate almost entirely, he moved forward until he was standing beside her and wrapped his arms around her small frame. She shook in his arms, writhing to break free, but he only tightened his hold around her. He hated doing this to her. He hated seeing her upset.

He hated it even more when he was the cause of it.

"Let me go, Troy," she said, her voice trembling, "just please let me go."

"Gabriella, I—"

"Miss Montez?" a timid voice said, and Troy turned around quickly to see a student standing there, her face bright red as she began to back out of the classroom. "Oh!" she said in surprise, "I'm sorry, I...I knew you were staying later and..."

"It's okay, Vera," Gabriella said, slipping out of Troy's grasp and wiping her eyes quickly. "What did you need?"

Vera stood there awkwardly in the doorway, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. It was an extremely uncomfortable situation; walking in on your teacher, of all people, crying in her classroom. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine!" Gabriella said, her voice forced and cheerful, "I just banged my funny bone against the desk and have a low threshold for pain. Nothing to worry about!" she laughed and Troy winced at how fake it sounded. "Now what did you need?"

Still blushing, Vera stammered out something about extra paint for her campaign posters, and Troy watched as Gabriella walked her over to the closet and pulled out several boxes of craft supplies, letting the student pick what she wanted. When she was finished, she practically raced out of the classroom and Gabriella locked up the closet, before letting out a sigh and walking back over to her desk.

Silently, she finished buttoning up her coat and grabbed her bag, hitching it over her shoulder. "Let's go home," she said stiffly.

"Gabriella," Troy laced her hand with his as she walked by, "we have to talk about this."

"Troy," she said and he met her still watery gaze. She squeezed his hand and he felt a shock run through him. The feeling would never go away. "Let's go home."

They walked hand in hand to the parking lot in silence, let go, and slid into the car in silence. They drove home in silence and slid out of the car in silence. It was all very silent.

It was during this quiet that Troy reflected that he hadn't even kissed her when he saw her earlier. He hadn't even managed to greet her properly.

* * *

The night went by just as quietly; upon arrival at their apartment, Gabriella had departed to the bathroom and run herself a bath, while Troy had gone to preparing dinner. He threw together some pasta and garlic bread, which happened to be one of the only things he could make, but also one of Gabriella's favourites. When she emerged from the bathroom forty minutes later, she ventured into their bedroom without saying a word to him. He sighed to himself, eating his dinner alone and wrapping up a plate for her to keep warm in the oven. Gabriella's silence had reminded him of the unspoken rule that he was to sleep on the couch.

And so the hours passed with him not doing anything in particular. He circled some job listings in the local paper, watched a bit of television and filled in a crossword puzzle. Eventually, ten o'clock rolled around and Gabriella still hadn't left their bedroom, so Troy went to the linen closet to collect some blankets and to put together a makeshift bed.

The thing he hated most about fighting with Gabriella was how hopelessly lonely it got. No one to talk to, no one to sleep beside, no one to hold. It was happening more frequently, and he found himself sleeping on the couch more than he'd care to admit. But for now, he was tired, and the day had been long, and the wedding was approaching far too fast for his liking, so a good night's sleep was needed.

Just as he flicked off the light and curled up underneath his mountain of blankets, the light from the hall suddenly filled the room and he groaned. As if on cue, Gabriella finally made her way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, ignoring Troy as she passed him.

He heard her shuffling around, opening the fridge and cupboards. Then he heard the oven door creek and everything was silent for a moment.

"Troy?" her small voice said, and his ears perked up.

"Yeah?" he whispered.

"Did you..." she trailed off, and he sat up on the couch, trying to hear her better. "You didn't have to keep dinner warm for me."

She appeared then, looking delicate and tiny, vulnerable and sad. He shrugged, wishing he could kiss away her sadness, even if he was the cause of it. "Maybe not," he admitted, "but I wanted to."

At his words, in two long strides, she was in his arms, her hands threaded through his hair and her body pressed flush against him. "I'm sorry," she said, and he shook off the shock that was still running through them before lifting his own arms to wrap around her.

"You don't have to apologize," he said, burying his face in her neck, "I'm sorry. I'm the dick here. I'm the one who messed up again."

She shook her head. "No, you didn't. I'm sorry for putting so much pressure on you." He could barely hear her, her voice muffled. "It's just hard...you know?"

"I know."

She pulled back, before moving forward and pressing her lips to his in a soft, long, deep kiss that made his knees weak. As they broke apart, he leaned his forehead against hers as she let out a deep breath.

"Come to bed," she said, sitting up and extending her hand to him, "I don't want you sleeping on the couch. Even at my maddest, I still feel terrible when you're on this rickety thing instead of in bed with me where you belong."

Feeling his heart perk up immensely, Troy took her outstretched hand and stood up. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."

Snuggled under the covers moments later, they exchanged soft kisses, exploring and falling back into the same comforting pattern. Moving backwards ever so slightly, Gabriella smiled softly at him.

"I love you," she whispered, her hands reaching up to stroke his face. "I love you so much. You know that right?"

Leaning into her touch, he nodded, his hand coming up and covering his. "I know. I love you, too. So much."

She burrowed into him, tucking her head underneath his chin and kissing the underside of his jaw. He trembled slightly at her touch, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. She continued to pepper kisses along the base of his neck as he felt her breathing even out, one hand coming up and curling on his chest.

Breathing in the scent of her hair, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, trying to rid himself of the creeping dread that was making his way up his stomach. The one that said sometimes love wasn't enough.

Slipping into slumber. he tried to bury the part of him that knew he was losing her.

* * *

**Thank you for the welcoming response! I hope if you were thoroughly confused, you are getting what I'm getting at, and if not, keep reading to find out. Special thanks as always, to my lovely, lovely beta reader Julina, who gives me such wonderful little notes. :)  
**


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